Special Forces ONP Assault Cutter, 4 Hours Post-Launch, Course Set for "Chimera"

  The metal hull of the cutter trembled faintly—not from turbulence, since there’s none in space, but from the engine pulses keeping the acceleration at a steady one-and-a-half g. The weight underfoot felt alien, pressing even the toughest bastards into their joints and spines in ways no base ever could.

  Darina had already claimed the bottom bunk—the only spot where you could half-ass relax. Above her, sprawled out with his legs splayed and puffing an illegal vape into the vent, lounged Sergeant Talik Singh, known in tight circles as "Pops." In the next row, Lieutenant Miroslav "Miro" Stoyanovich was cleaning his modular rifle, while Captain Michael Johnson slouched in the command chair, lazily scrolling through a tactical briefing. Lieutenant Kazuhiro Yamada, curled up in the corner, was either meditating or faking it—fuck knows with that silent Jap.

  The quiet shattered under Pops’ deep, gravelly growl:

  "One-and-a-half g ain’t no fucking tourist jaunt to an orbital dump! How long are you bitches gonna last, huh?" He cackled, flicking the vape pod straight onto the floor. "I remember hauling crates on Ceres at two g—some greenhorn’s eyes popped right out. Mouth opened, and blood came bubbling up. Now that was a sight!"

  "Shut it, Talik," Miro snapped, not looking up from his rifle. "If anyone’s popping, it’ll be your mouth from your own damn stories."

  "Fuck you, you shitty sniper!" Pops grinned. "Ever get those dainty hands dirty, or you just spit through a scope?"

  "Better through a scope than on whores behind the latrine," Miro shot back. "Though for you, Pops, a hooker and a spacesuit are the same damn thing."

  Talik opened his mouth to retort, but Michael raised a hand, eyes still glued to the screen:

  "Quit bitching, you pack of mutts. Anyone actually read the briefing, or are we figuring it out on the fly again?"

  "What’s to read?" Darina rolled over, hands behind her head. "We’re flying to 'Chimera,' docking with that rusty tub, slapping on miner disguises, playing a drunk shift hauling a busted drill for repairs. Get close, crack the airlocks, slip in, and sort out who’s a rat and who’s just extra baggage."

  "Yeah, and ‘avoid direct confrontation if possible,’" Pops mocked in a high-pitched whine. "Like anyone’s dodging shit after we barge in! We’ll pop out like a pus-filled zit on an ass—everyone’s gonna see us."

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  "Half that lab’s probably bought off root to stem," Michael said, peeling his eyes off the screen and snapping his fingers. "If not more. So half’ll greet us with tea and cookies, and the other half’ll try locking us in the airlock and blowing us out to fuck-knows-where in open space. Me? I’m not avoiding shit—I’m starting with an elbow to the teeth."

  "Crystal clear, boss," Pops threw a mock salute, only to catch Michael’s hard stare and clam up.

  Yamada, silent till now, cracked his eyes open and spoke low, cutting through the noise:

  "Pretending to be drunk miners won’t work. Our spine is too stiff. They’ll clock us by our walk and talk in a heartbeat."

  "Thanks, Captain Obvious," Darina smirked. "That’s why we’re picking up a couple real miners en route. Let them play crew while we’re ‘corporate techs.’ So, Yamada, prep that Chinese face of yours to charm some filthy thugs. They’ll sell their souls once they see you’re tougher than they are."

  "I’m Japanese," Kazuhiro replied, calm as ever.

  "Japanese, Martian, whatever—just don’t stay mute," Darina snorted. "They’ll think someone ripped your tongue out."

  Michael clapped his hands, dragging their attention back:

  "Enough philosophizing. Right now, it’s about surviving this damn one-and-a-half g without puking or snapping our backs. Anyone who flops on 'Chimera' is scrubbing the shitter all the way to the Trojans."

  "Ooh, keep scaring me," Pops scratched his gut. "What I’m worried about is the grub on this tub. Decent, or we are stuck with 'Soyuz-23' rations again?"

  "Don’t eat, think," Michael grinned. "Keep chowing down, and your brain will fuse with the fat. Might do you some good."

  "Hey, you hear that?" Pops shook a fist. "I’m supposed to use my brain now! Since when, Captain? I haul heavy iron and break people. Thinking’s for Holland—she was born for it."

  Darina bolted upright, eyes flashing:

  "Mention my girl again, and you’re sleeping in the airlock."

  "Oh, she’s ‘your girl’ now?" Pops smirked. "Well, well…"

  "Talik," Michael loomed over him. "Either shut your trap, or I’ll shut it with a helmet. Orally. We’ve got four days in this metal coffin—I’m not listening to you fuck up our vibe. Got it?"

  "Got it, got it, jeez, calm down!" Pops pulled a fake pout but switched gears fast: "Fine, first one to the bar for a beer on 'Chimera' wins."

  "You’re insufferable," the squad groaned in unison.

  The cutter hummed its monotone song, the nav panel flickering with signal lights. Ahead stretched four days in a cramped hull—stink of sweat, grease, and ozone, jokes past the line, rehashing old ops, and prepping for the moment the airlock swings open. They’d step out not as soldiers but as a grimy pack of workers, ready to rip the throat out of anyone who sniffed them out.

  One-and-a-half g didn’t feel so heavy anymore. The real weight was waiting up ahead.